


Your Eyes Close As I Fall Asleep

by dreamofhorses



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Bubble Bath, Fluff, M/M, Massage, Pablo Neruda's Poetry, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Dancing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, wow Neruda is a tag I guess I learned something today
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 10:50:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15727893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamofhorses/pseuds/dreamofhorses
Summary: “Those? Are? Um.” Timmy sighs a little at the feel of Armie’s face against his leg. “They’re molly.”“Molly? God, Tim, you’d be fucking unbearable if you were any more of a ray of sunshine.”Inspired by a conversation with lookingforatardis in which I posited that Timmy doing molly (or ecstasy if you're as old as I am) would be the most adorable thing in the universe. Apparently adding drugs to the story was all it took for me to write the fluffiest most innocent thing I think I'm capable of (you know, aside from the drug part).





	Your Eyes Close As I Fall Asleep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lookingforatardis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingforatardis/gifts).



“Timmy? What’s this?”

Armie had flopped down on Timmy’s bed, hoping to catch five minutes of rest before...whatever else Timmy had in mind. The shower was running and Armie wasn’t even sure Timmy heard him. But as soon as his back hit the bed something there bit him, like some Cayman Island sand flea, and he put his hand onto the duvet to find a small cellophane wrapper holding a handful of tiny white pills. They look so small in his hand; he instantly feels like the princess discovering the pea.

The shower has stopped running. Timmy might be able to hear him more clearly now. So he repeats it. “ _ Timmy _ . What are these?”

Timmy appears in the bathroom doorway in silhouette, shadow falling into the darker bedroom beyond. A thick plum-colored towel is wrapped around his waist. As he sits beside Armie on the bed the towel falls to one side and exposes a freckled thigh, which Armie brushes lazily with his chin.

“Those? Are? Um.” Timmy sighs a little at the feel of Armie’s face against his leg. “They’re molly.”

“Molly? God, Tim, you’d be fucking unbearable if you were any more of a ray of sunshine.” Armie knocks his nose against Timmy’s knee, nips softly at his calf to show that he’s joking.

“I just.” Timmy stands, crosses to the closet. “I was curious.” He slips on a pair of French terry sweatpants, tosses the towel into a hamper in the corner of the room, and rejoins Armie on the bed.

“You? Curious? Never.” Armie reaches to tickle Timmy’s bare chest, but he first makes sure to set the pills on the bedside table. Armie may have outgrown club drugs, but he’s not about to be careless with something that’s important to Timmy.

Timmy shuffles up the bed to the headboard, dodging Armie’s touch. “It seemed like fun, I’ve heard some people talk about it and it doesn’t seem like anyone ever has a bad time. Isn’t that kind of amazing? I didn’t--I would never--I mean, there’s a lot of them there obviously, you could do them with me if you wanted, but mostly I brought them here because--” he casts his eyes down toward the waistband of his pants. “I know you’re experienced at this stuff and I thought you could...hang out with me? If I do it? Help me know what to expect?”

He meets Armie’s gaze, finally, hopefully. Armie realizes now why Timmy never put a shirt on after his shower; he was planning even then to ask Armie for something and knows he’s more likely to get yes for an answer if he’s wearing less clothing when he asks.

It’s not like Armie’s got no experience with molly; he’s got just enough in fact. It was a thing he did, a handful of times, usually with Nick, once or twice at a rave, and every time it was peaceful, swept out a dusty corner or two of his soul, left him feeling a little more settled each time. Maybe that was why he’d never chased it like he did other feelings of intoxication. The drug was always a warm cocoon, waiting for him, never shifting, and ironically Armie started to respect it from a distance because of that. Then the distance grew greater, he found other things to ground him, molly stopped sounding like fun, and then it even stopped sounding interesting.

_ But of course Timmy can make anything interesting _ , Armie thinks as he meets Timmy’s eyes, prepares an answer.  _ Babysitting someone who’s high while you’re sober, particularly someone who will be ecstatic while you’re just...there. This should not sound like a good time. _ And yet as he meets those leaf-green eyes, pictures the dark pools at their center growing, pictures hearing Timmy, already so responsive, moaning at the lightest touch as he peaks, Armie knows his answer was set before Timmy opened his mouth. “You know I will, Timmy.”

Timmy’s eyes brighten; he bounces a little on the bed and chews his lower lip in excitement before springing up to grab a glass of water. When he returns to the bed he’s shifting from one foot to another again and still isn’t wearing a shirt.

“Something else you wanted to ask me?” Armie asks, voice thick under a teasing grin.

“I saw this thing in a movie once...when they took this drug...I wondered if you--”   
  
Armie cuts him off by sitting upright on the bed. He grabs the cellophane and removes one pill. A mischievous smile blooms on his face despite all his efforts to calmly think  _ you’re too old to be teasing people with molly, Hammer. _ He curls his tongue out of his mouth, slowly, deliberately, more of an unfurling really, and places the pill at the tip of his tongue. Then he inclines his head backward, ever so gently, making sure not to jostle Timmy’s prize.  _ Come and get it _ .

Timmy’s been watching, mesmerized, since Armie first touched the pills, but now he grows ravenous. He slides across the bed until his chest and Armie’s align, pressing together. Then he flicks out his tongue, ever so slowly, giving them both time to remember the first time that happened, everything it set in motion, leading them to  _ this, here, now _ , and entwines their tongues together, plucking the pill from Armie’s mouth into his own, and deepening their kiss for a long moment before he pulls away to wash down the pill with a deep swallow of water.

“Now what?” he asks, trusting and inexperienced now despite playing the sex kitten seconds earlier.

“Now we wait,” Armie replies, “about an hour. Maybe less.” He realizes that he sounds stiff, instructive, and softens his tone deliberately. “Here. Lie down. I’ll get some tea and wait with you till it kicks in.” He tousles Timmy’s curls on his way to the kitchen.

When he returns to the bedroom Timmy has put on a t-shirt and laid down on his side on the bed. The mug of tea is almost too warm in Armie’s hands and he sets it down on the bedside table to cool, then turns to Timmy. When he sees that the shirt Timmy has picked is actually Armie’s, the forest green one that says OAKLAND, the one Armie always jokes matches Timmy’s eyes, it’s all he can do to lower himself slowly onto the bed instead of melting onto it helplessly.

Armie grins in anticipation once he’s settled beside Timmy. The usual nervous energy Timmy exudes is multiplied, compounded by the drug that has yet to hit him but that he knows is coming. Armie twirls one of Timmy’s curls around his finger, slides his hand to the nape of Timmy’s neck, squeezes there gently to release tension. Timmy worries his lower lip between his teeth and to calm him Armie fishes the steaming mug of tea from the side table. “Peach, huh? Really?” Timmy asks, rolling his eyes, but there’s affection in it and he obediently sits up against the headboard to sip from the cup. The tea’s still so hot it takes him several minutes to get it all down, and Armie’s running through things in his mind, old party tricks he and his friends used to do when they rolled, and he’s just gotten around to wondering if there are any glow sticks in the house when Timmy finishes the tea and meets Armie’s eyes again.

In the 15 minutes or so it’s taken Timmy to drink his tea, his eyes have become bottomless pools fringed with the slightest ring of forest green. His own smile grows mischievous to match Armie’s and when he takes a breath his pupils dilate further and the ring of green in his eyes, that last link to earth and vegetation, disappears entirely. Timmy breathes in, deeply, closes his eyes and throws his head back, and all his nerves and need slide away on his exhale. Armie’s never seen Timmy like this, never looked at him and had  _ calm _ be the first word to come to mind, but here he is. When Timmy opens his eyes to meet Armie’s again, his gaze is ancient, prehistoric. People are always telling Timmy he has an old soul, that there’s an 80-year-old man behind Timmy’s 22-year-old eyes. But this gaze goes back millennia; Armie sees a jungle river, surrounded by reeds, about to be glimpsed by humans for the first time. A cactus flower, blooming in the desert, quick and jerky, as though in a time-lapse.

“Come on,” Armie says, reaching for Timmy’s hand. “I bet you’ll enjoy hearing some music.”

Timmy’s hand is pliant in Armie’s, not with the usual element of submission, but relaxed, observant, refusing choice because it closes a door and the last thing Timmy wants right now is to close anything. Armie scrolls through some songs on his phone as they walk to the living room, at first only remembering that when he took molly he always wanted music that was deep, deceptively still, and he never understood the appeal of the repetitive trance music that enthralled everyone else. Finally he settles on Ali Farka Touré, remembering that its hidden complexity used to soothe him as he waited for the sharp, signature rise of his heartbeat and tightness in his chest that meant the bliss was close behind.

In the living room, Armie presses play and gives silent thanks that his phone has decided to talk nicely to the wireless speakers for once. Full, warm strings flood the room as Armie settles onto the couch, running his hand over it as he sits and being glad for the first time that he and Timmy had chosen jacquard velvet.  _ Timmy will enjoy that later _ , he thinks, and grins to himself.

“What?” Timmy asks, but he sounds like he isn’t sure his voice works.

“I’ll show you later, baby,” Armie says softly. He isn’t sure he’s spoken this gently to Timmy in his entire life. “For now just come here.” He pats his lap, and when Timmy turns to sit Armie nestles him so their legs are parallel, Timmy’s thighs resting on his, and he pushes Timmy’s back down so that he’s bent almost double, head resting on his knees, while Armie rubs lazy circles on his back.

The song swells, winds down. Armie hugs Timmy’s waist, pulls him upright. As soon as there’s new sensory input Timmy stiffens, twisting his head from side to side like a meerkat. When he swivels to face Armie, swinging his legs around so they bracket Armie’s hips, his eyes are pools of perception without end. His lower jaw slides idly from side to side against his teeth. He flops bonelessly against Armie’s chest, giggling. He’s going to need more from Armie, soon. Armie shuffles through some songs on his phone, throws on some Ravi Shankar, something that feels innocuous. Timmy hiccups a few times, goes to cover his mouth, and seems to realize he’s no longer capable of feeling embarrassed. The realization makes him fix Armie with a beaming grin.

Armie feels like he’s stepped out of Plato’s cave and seen what a smile actually is for the first time in his life. His entire life has been lit by a moon, and he didn’t know it, but now he’s staring directly into the sun. Before he knows it he’s pulling Timmy to him, licking Timmy’s lips as a joke that will carry them back to a clearing by a field, the sun turning the green corn to gold, aging it before its time. He means to deepen the kiss, intensify it as he’s used to, but Timmy  _ moans _ against him just at the touch of Armie’s tongue and Armie realizes  _ this _ , restraint, is what he’ll have to give Timmy right now.

“How you feeling?” Armie whispers, pulling away from Timmy and resting his hands on Timmy’s arms. Timmy melts into the touch but holds Armie’s gaze.

“ ‘M good. So good.” Timmy runs his tongue along his teeth, along the outside of his lips as if he never knew those surfaces existed before.  Armie sets his jaw, tries not to sexualize this. Timmy’s experimenting, experiencing. He doesn’t know the effect he’s having on Armie.

Except then Timmy closes his eyes, throws his head back in a parody of romance-novel sensuality, and lets out a peal of laughter that brightens the room. “Am I being totally ridiculous right now?” he asks, and his voice is so light and carefree that Armie knows the answer doesn’t even matter.

“Totally,” Armie growls, nuzzling his nose into the sensitive spots between Timmy’s ribs, and he shrieks and wiggles away until he slides from Armie’s lap onto the floor, an awkward pile of limbs between Armie’s knees. Timmy seems surprised that gravity still works, huffs an indignant laugh, and is then immediately distracted by the texture of the couch cushions he has grabbed to break his fall. He runs his long fingers over the fabric, tries going against the grain of it, then traces the outline of the leaf pattern with a single fingernail.

In the background, Armie’s phone has started shuffling songs for lack of input. He recognizes a Dylan tune he hasn’t heard in ages, hums a little, and at the sound Timmy looks up at him with another supernova grin. He climbs to his feet, backs into the center of the room, hips swaying, holds his hands out to Armie. “Dance with me?”

If there’s ever been anything Timmy could ask for that Armie wouldn’t give him, nothing comes to mind in that moment. Even dancing seems easy. Timmy falls against Armie, curls tickling his chin, arms encircling his waist, as Armie rests his forearms on Timmy’s shoulders, fingers laced together behind his neck like they’re in high school. He breathes in Timmy’s scent, with an undercurrent of exertion from how fast his hummingbird heart must be going.  _ Why wait any longer for the one you love, when he’s standing in front of you _ . At the line Timmy tips his head back, meets Armie’s eyes for longer than he ever has before. There are no nerves in his gaze, although his shiver under Armie’s lightest touch tells him the nerves in the rest of Timmy’s body are alive, well, and quite possibly burning like live wires.

“I’m going to kiss you, OK?” Armie asks, thinking preparation might prevent Timmy’s reaction from overwhelming them both. Timmy nods without breaking eye contact, and even when Armie bends to press their lips together Timmy’s eyes stay open, recording everything. As soon as their lips touch Timmy gasps, sucks in sharply, and Armie’s drawn closer to him by the intake of breath. His lips have never been this pliant under Armie’s before; usually they’re sharp, exploratory, amused, but now they’re reticent, observant. He brushes his nose against the side of Armie’s. He giggles against Armie’s mouth, then outright  _ sighs _ and then the softness vanishes. Timmy’s hand balls into a fist in the hair at the nape of Armie’s neck, he pulls Armie closer and holds their lips together and  _ just breathes _ , twice. He presses their lips together a final time, hard, flicks his tongue against the back of Armie’s teeth, and lets go.

When Armie’s eyes flutter open after that kiss he’s swear he’s the one whose drugs are hitting their peak right about now. He can barely stand. Timmy notices the sway in Armie’s stance, giggles innocently again, and suddenly the forceful, demandingly curious Timmy of moments ago is gone. “I know what you need,” Armie says, almost to himself, and grabs both Timmy’s hands to lead him down the hall toward the master bath.

To keep Timmy occupied while he sets the scene, Armie pulls out an old party trick. He stands Timmy in the doorway of an open closet, tells him to press the outsides of his wrists against the door frame as hard as he can. Then he lights candles, fills the soaking tub, drops in the last of some lavender bath salts his trainer suggested he use when they go too hard at the gym. When he returns to collect Timmy, Timmy’s staring at his wrists like his hands just grew there and surprised him. “I can feel my pulse on the outside of my wrists, is that the trick?” Timmy asks without looking up.

“No, that’s not it,” Armie chuckles, planting a kiss atop Timmy’s head and standing just out of reach. He beckons to Timmy. “Come here.”

  
Armie knows that when Timmy steps out of the doorway his arms will feel like they’re rising effortlessly, but Timmy doesn’t know that. Armie expects that Timmy’s look of discovery at this will halfway resemble his expression of wonder at everyday things, his favorite cocktails or finding out they’re taking a train ride. And Armie suddenly discovers that this is incorrect. There’s a sunniness to Timmy’s normal wondrous expression, an uncomplicated happiness at the root of it, because he knows what’s coming and that it’s safe and he likes it. But what passes across Timmy’s face now is not brightness or sunshine so much as focus, laser-like concentration, a determination to absorb this new sensation and be absolutely certain that he catalogs it correctly as something he will or won’t wish to repeat, and Armie can literally read the thought on Timmy’s face as it comes to him,  _ this is  _ **_fun_ ** , and when his eyes meet Armie’s they’re so full of gratitude and trust that Armie’s glad it only lasts a moment or he really fears he might cry. Then suddenly he has an armful of Timmy, giggling and embracing Armie at the waist, huffing out, “thank you, that was so cool, how do you even know these things,” peppering Armie with kisses on his biceps that end in playful half-bites.

“Come on, you,” Armie affects a faux-gruff tone, “there’s a surprise in here too.”

When he sees the bathroom Timmy gasps involuntarily, all playfulness gone. The noise is so elemental that when Armie glances over to make sure Timmy’s OK he seems genuinely unaware that he’s made a sound. They slip noiselessly into the water and to lighten the mood Armie tries making silly shadow puppets on the wall using the light from the candles. Timmy tips his head back, eyes closed, wet curls splayed out against the edge of the tub, and breathes deeply for several minutes. Armie discovers that watching him do this counts as its own leisure activity. He’s placed some bubble bath at the edge of the tub and when Timmy sits up, seeking stimulation, Armie draws Timmy against him, Timmy’s back on his chest, and squeezes bubbles into the space around them. He rubs some into Timmy’s curls, watches the tiny pale globes burst against the glossy darkness of Timmy’s hair, giggles when Timmy makes a film of bubbles between his long fingers and then destroys them with a breath. He rubs again at Timmy’s shoulders and neck, closing his eyes to reduce his senses to Timmy’s skin under his hands and Timmy’s moans at his touch, hanging heavy in the humid silence of the room.

“How you feeling, baby?” Armie asks.

“It’s just. This is so right. Everything. How did you know? What to do?” Timmy’s tipped back against Armie’s chest now, rubbing Armie’s thighs as if memorizing them, as if he knows they’ll never again feel exactly like this under his hands.

“I wanted you to feel good. Because I love you. So I guessed.” Normally Armie wouldn’t be this frank but he figures if there’s any time to try out radical honesty with Timmy this is probably it.

“You never have to guess though. You’re here. You’re already here, all the time.” Timmy taps his temple. “That’s why it’s easy to love you. You were already here.”

Armie has no words to respond to this, especially when it’s said so simply and clearly as Timmy has said it, no emotion choking his voice, no livewire nerves running beneath the surface. Stated as if it were a fact. Which, of course, it is.

He has no words of his own, so he uses someone else’s. “I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist, nor you.” He hears Timmy smile at that even though he can’t see Timmy’s face.

“Yes, exactly.”

“Except I didn’t say that. Pablo Neruda did. And he’s never even met us.”

“Well, he writes like he has.” As he speaks Timmy lazily draws a heart in the bubble bath with his finger.

“How are you feeling?”

“Maybe sleepy. Maybe a little.”

Armie’s robe swallows Timmy whole when he wraps him in it outside the tub. “Come on, let’s get a lot of water in you and then we’ll lie down for a bit.” Timmy is suddenly distracted by the patterns on their duvet and starts tracing them with his hands, so Armie goes to the kitchen alone, brings a pitcher of water back with him, watches while Timmy drinks down two full glasses before they lie down side by side on the bed. Armie brings up his music app again, turns on the speakers in the corner. He chooses the first Sigur Ros album, tries to put out of his mind all the times he came down from a high to this music with people he didn’t care half as much about as he cares for Timmy. All he can do to fix it is love Timmy like he’d always wanted any of them to love him.

So he does.

He removes the robe Timmy’s wearing, leaves him lying on his back on the bed, turns down the lights. He kneels at Timmy’s feet, starts touching him there, firmly, knowing he’ll tickle if he’s not careful, and following each caress with a kiss. A clear, open-mouthed kiss on every part of Timmy’s body that says  _ This. This part here. I love this part. And this one. And I love you most of all, because what I love in you most I can’t touch, will never touch, but I can feel it if you offer it to me. And somehow you’ve always let me in, let me love you _ .

He kisses every single part of Timmy he can reach without turning him over. At first Timmy moans, pants at the kisses, but then he goes silent and Armie realizes that the only thing that means more than how much noise Timmy usually makes is  _ when he’s so gone that the noise stops _ . When he reaches Timmy’s neck and chin he covers each of them with his hands, Timmy whispering “so small,” and Armie knows Timmy means Armie is the only person ever to make him feel that way, that Timmy who towers over his family and is always at the back of the group photo is somehow birdlike in Armie’s hands.

Armie plants a final kiss on Timmy’s forehead, covers him with a blanket in case he’s ready to wind down for sleep.

“How does it end?” Timmy mumbles as he settles into the blanket, pulls it around him, nuzzles his face against it as the heightened sensation of the drug fades.

“How does what end, baby?” Armie asks, opening the blinds so that they can see the sunrise that’s just begun.

“The poem. Neruda.”

Armie joins Timmy under the blanket, removes his own tracksuit pants so that all of their skin can touch. He aligns them, curls one arm under Timmy and across his back, placing one of Timmy’s hands on his own chest so that he can feel the vibrations as Armie speaks.

“So close that your hand on my chest is my hand. So close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.”

 

Faint smiles crease both their faces. The sun rises. They sleep well.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I'm dreamofhorses42 on Tumblr, come say hi!


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